Merci…I think.

Remember when Husband got a really sleek French suit last year? Well, after months of complaining about how tight it was in the derriere and how tired he was of all the catcalls on the walk to work in the morning, he found a tailor to let the pants out a little bit. And then he decided to have this tailor go ahead and make him a custom suit, which he jokingly referred to as his “push present.”

Ugh.

Can we banish that term from the English language forever? Especially from the mouths of Husbands who will never know the exquisite pleasure/pain/humiliation of growing a baby human that not only gives you fiery burps and elephant boobs but also plans on exiting through the hoo-hah region? No “present” could ever make up for that, thankyouverymuch.

Anywho, Husband brought the tailor back to the apartment after work on Monday to pick out fabric and take measurements. He was incredibly kind and friendly, and wanted to hear all about le bébé. And when I told him my due date was (hopefully) imminent, his eyes got wide and he said,

“C’est vrai? Mais vous n’êtes pas grosse!” 

Which basically means, “Really? You’re not even fat!”

And I know he meant “fat” and not just “big” or “large” because he proceeded to tell me about how his wife gained so many kilos with each of their children that she cried about her big wobbly arms and thighs.

I’m not sure what else to say about that, other than Wow. And thank you. I think?